


the horror was for love

by marrieddorks



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Body Worship, Butt Plugs, Feminization, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Nipple Piercings, Possessive Auguste, References to Drugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:02:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marrieddorks/pseuds/marrieddorks
Summary: It's Laurent's wedding day.  Again.
Relationships: Auguste/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	the horror was for love

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely inspired by the movie 'Crimson Peak' (2015). The title as well.
> 
> Completely unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own and, believe me, there are mistakes; I wrote this in a few hours.

His outward composure betrayed the erratic beating of his heart. He could feel the organ working tirelessly in the confines of his chest, pumping blood too fast through his veins and making his skin flushed, hot to the touch. In reality, it gave his face an attractive hue, one that made him look even younger than his twenty years, one that made his porcelain skin suddenly doll-like. Of course, that itself was only complemented by his wide blue eyes, fringed with golden lashes that swept the apples of his cheeks each time he blinked, and his cherry of a mouth with its parted lips and too-pink tongue.

Yes, dressed in traditional white, Laurent was a vision.

“Almost finished.”

The girl helping him get ready — Myrial, if Laurent remembered correctly — was finishing with the laces of his corset belt, the very one his husband-to-be had helped him pick out just weeks ago. It accentuated his waist, drawing attention to how small he was whilst giving the illusion of fuller hips and broadening his shoulders all at once. There was part of him that admired what he saw in the mirror, admired the gentle fall of his hair, admired the length of his legs, admired what he imagined he’d look like as he was walked down the aisle to where he’d be met with an endless amount of adoring gazes.

“There!” Myrial said, standing up with a flourish, her red ringlets all abuzz around her own head. She was still standing behind him, her hands moving up to his bare shoulders, and in a breathless awe she continued with a quiet, “Oh,” then, “Oh, Laurent. You look magical.”

Laurent smiled, the upturn of his lips small but sincere, and he smoothed a hand over the front of his white pants. “Thank you,” he said, and that was sincere too. “I wouldn’t look near this magical without your help.”

“Laurent,” Myrial admonished. “This is all you.”

Humming thoughtfully, Laurent looked at himself in the mirror again. The jumpsuit, as it most appropriately could be called, was a perfect mixture between Patran and Veretian sensibilities. It covered most of his skin, the pants ending just fashionably above his ankles, and the top beginning at the distinct line of his collarbones, yet his arms were kept unobstructed with the intent of being covered soon by the sheer floor length capelet. Yes, it felt magical, like the fairytales he’d dreamed about in his youth.

As if reading his mind, Myrial came forward with the capelet and draped it elegantly over Laurent’s shoulders, his arms sliding into the smooth satin arms without thought. With a few adjustments, including cinching in the waist of the capelet as well, Laurent was but minutes from being ready.

A knock on the door, however, startled both him and Myrial, and Myrial’s physical gasp had hardly finished leaving her mouth before Auguste stuck his head in.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his eyes comically covered by one hand, the other reaching out faux-helpless for direction.

“As you’re already half in, I don’t expect you to take no for an answer,” Laurent said while Myrial giggled.

Auguste felt his way inside still, making sure not to knock anything over or run into Laurent or Myrial, but once he was certain he was in he closed the door with a resounding _click_ and opened his eyes.

“Oh.” It was the same breathless awe Myrial had used, but it was heavier. And for a moment, it seemed it was all Auguste could choke out.

Laurent hadn’t turned from the mirror, his eyes on Auguste’s reflection rather than on Auguste himself because it was easier that way. While Auguste took in his fill, Laurent took in his brother’s suit, the steel blue of it the same color of his eyes, the same color of the sky the night they had discussed Laurent’s pending engagement.

“I’ll leave you two. We still have half an hour before the music cues,” Myrial said in a whisper. She was holding back a smile, one of barely-contained affection at watching the silent moment between two brothers. Before she got behind Auguste, she put a hand on his shoulder and said, in the same tone, “Giving him away must be so hard,” and then she was gone, her touch on the both of them already a whisper, already forgotten.

“You look —” Auguste started, and then he laughed incredulously, disbelieving.

The erratic beat of Laurent’s heart had increased in speed, his ears hued the same color of his cheeks now, and he still didn’t turn from the mirror, not even to say, “My husband has fine taste in attire.”

The reaction of his words was immediate. He knew it would be.

He watched with anticipation as Auguste turned on his heel, watched with anticipation as Auguste turned back, the setting of the lock echoing in the room, watched with anticipation as Auguste took his first step toward him.

The first touch of Auguste’s hand was like a brand sliding over the satin of the capelet and curling around Laurent’s hip until their bodies were flush against one another, back to front, front to back.

“Your _who_ has fine taste?” Auguste asked, his mouth dangerously close to Laurent’s ear, his eyes on the picture the two of them made in the mirror.

“My husband,” Laurent said. Auguste’s grip, now on both of his hips, tightened. “That’s what he is, isn’t he?”

“Not yet. And never in anything other than legality.”

It was Laurent’s turn to have wandering hands and they snaked down his own body, lingering at the dip of his own throat before brushing beyond the stiff fabric of the top part of his outfit until one stopped at the laces of his corset belt and the other met one of Auguste’s hands on his hip, their fingers intertwining immediately.

“Why?” Laurent asked, asked as though he didn’t know the answer.

“You know why,” Auguste said into his neck, the scruff on his face scratching against the satin of the capelet over Laurent’s shoulders.

“I want to hear you say it,” Laurent said. “Please.”

The hand of Auguste’s Laurent wasn’t holding took the opposite path Laurent had just taken over his own body moments ago, the hand sliding up and over the curves of his waist, over the sensitive rise of his ribs, until it was high enough to rest at Laurent’s throat, his fingers on one side and his thumb on the other, placed perfectly to control the movement of Laurent’s head, placed perfectly to feel the palpitation of his pulse etching its own beat into the inside of Laurent’s skin.

“Because you’re mine,” Auguste said, whispered, into the still of the air, and Laurent melted against him at the words, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Yes,” he breathed back.

He could have stayed like that forever, encompassed by Auguste with those words lingering in the room, letting Auguste’s touch light the fire of his soul as it always did. But he knew it wasn’t enough then, knew it would never be enough, and he wasn’t surprised when Auguste wrenched him to turn around.

The first touch of their lips was almost violent, a clash of want, but it softened quickly, softened so extreme, to but a whisper of a touch, and it was what Laurent liked. Auguste knew it too, knew Laurent needed to feel everything, so when he began untying and unwinding the laces of the corset belt, Laurent let out a sigh into the breaths they were sharing, let out a sigh that made Auguste grind forward.

It was easier than Myrial had, no doubt, intended to get the corset undone, but there wasn’t time to mourn her hard work, not when Auguste’s questing hands had found the zipper in the back of Laurent’s jumpsuit, not when Laurent was clinging to the broadness of his shoulders like a lifeline.

Auguste lifted his head, breaking off the kiss so he could watch his hands as they reached beyond the capelet to tug the zipper, and Laurent busied his own mouth by sucking a kiss to the hinge of Auguste’s jaw, careful to not mark him up, not until tonight, but enough to leave it pinked, enough to get his own desire across. Then the zipper came down.

The touch of Auguste’s hand was even hotter on Laurent’s bare skin. It was almost overwhelming, would have been if Laurent wasn’t so accustomed to it now, and he pressed himself closer to Auguste’s completely clothed body, like he could crawl inside now and stay there until this was over.

“Step out for me, Laurent,” Auguste whispered into his neck.

“What about the capelet?” Laurent asked, moving to tug it off of his shoulders.

Auguste’s smile was predatory then, his eyes hungry and mouth open in unrestrained arousal as though he was ready to devour. “Leave it on.”

The jumpsuit fell into a puddle on the floor at their feet, the wrinkles it would later have a nonconcern, and Laurent was done being patient.

“Auguste, please,” he said.

Auguste, however, was too busy to respond right away. He was staring in the mirror once more, taking in the sheer fabric and the way it exposed and concealed Laurent all at once, taking in lines of him, and the drape of the sheer white that made him like marble.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Auguste said with conviction then and Laurent still tried to press closer.

“Auguste.”

“No one deserves you, Laurent. No one is good enough.”

“You are,” Laurent said with his own kind of conviction now, his wide blue eyes searching for Auguste’s, wanting to tell him all his desires through looks alone. Auguste always made him forget his words.

“Not even me,” Auguste said. “No one.” Then he took an entire step back, dislodging Laurent’s arms from him.

Dressed in nothing but the capelet, the capelet the same color as his skin, Laurent looked ready to be worshiped and Auguste wanted nothing more in that moment than to do that, than to give reverence to every inch of Laurent’s skin.

Unlike many, Auguste didn’t consider himself above being on his knees.

Laurent’s skin was soft, him having earlier that day been bathed in scented oils and lotions in anticipation for a wedding night that was never going to happen in the way assumed, and Auguste couldn’t not kiss the delicate bones of his ankles, lips lingering on one before moving to the other. He could feel Laurent’s stare down at his dark gold head, could hear the labor of his breathing, and if Laurent deserved any less, Auguste would be laying claim to his mouth.

Laurent’s legs were rider’s legs, strong and defined, and already littered in bruises from Auguste’s earlier ministrations, bites and marks the size of Auguste’s fingertips covering the inner part of his thighs. Auguste took his time working up the shape of his calves, up the bones of his knees, until he could put his mouth over the same places and deepen the marks, like he could make them permanent if he did it enough.

“Auguste,” Laurent breathed on another sigh.

Auguste didn’t let the confession of his name deter him. He kept on, teeth scraping Laurent’s hips, kisses covering every inch of his toned stomach, feeling the shudders wrecking him already. As he moved upward and upward, his hands stayed on Laurent’s hips, thumbs strumming the thin skin there like he could feel Laurent’s desire speed from every place Auguste’s lips touched to his cock that was as pink as the flushed color that hadn’t left Laurent’s cheeks in an hour now, only deepened.

When he reached Laurent’s nipples, he didn’t hesitate to take one into his mouth, knowing what such an action would do, and he wasn’t disappointed. Laurent lurched against him, hands scrambling for purchase on anything stable, and the first keen of the day left his mouth unbidden as Auguste’s teeth found the tiny metallic studs of the barbell that was there, that had been there since Laurent was fifteen and looking to surprise Auguste for his birthday. It was Auguste’s turn to close his eyes in pleasure, the feeling of it all pooling hot in his stomach as Laurent let out another high pitched whine, as Laurent shifted, trying to get Auguste’s thigh between his. After another moment of worrying the sensitive areola between his teeth, he pulled off with a wet plop before immediately blowing cool air on the reddened bud, obliging Laurent with his thigh in perfect timing.

“Oh, gods,” Laurent said, only half coherent, and he thrusted his hips along the rough fabric of Auguste’s pants, trapping his cock between his own bare stomach and Auguste’s jacket, and widening his stance like he could get his hole to feel the friction from the fabric as well, like he could get his hole to feel something, anything, beyond the ghosts of purposeful touch Auguste was leaving on his skin. “Auguste, please.”

“What do you want, Laurent?” Auguste asked, bottom lip dragging along the prominent bone of Laurent’s sternum. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you.” Laurent tucked his head into the crook of Auguste’s neck, teeth finding the ironed collar of Auguste’s dress shirt to keep from finding his neck again.

“We don’t have long,” Auguste said. His arm wound around Laurent’s waist, tugging him higher on his leg until they could feel their hearts beating against each other, fighting to break out of the confines of their chests to become one. “I have to give you away soon.”

Laurent tried to push closer. “Never give me away, Auguste.”

“Of course not,” and Auguste couldn’t not kiss him then, slide his other hand possessively in the hair at the base of Laurent’s skull. Laurent opened for him, cherry mouth falling wide, letting Auguste lick into him, letting him take claim of everything Laurent was. “Never, Laurent.”

“Then take me,” Laurent begged, demanded, of him.

“There’s not time. We still have to get you redressed. We —”

“There’s time,” Laurent said, and he fumbled for Auguste’s hand, the one clutching at Laurent’s hip, before moving it down between his legs, and letting Auguste feel the firm base of the plug nestled there.

Auguste pulled back, looking at Laurent under lashes, watching a different kind of pleasure fight its way onto Laurent’s face. “You’re devilish.”

“Take me,” Laurent begged again. “We have time.”

“We do,” Auguste said before claiming Laurent’s mouth just to feel the vibration of Laurent’s cry as he tugged on the base of the plug, just enough so the widest part left Laurent spread.

Inspiration was mindless in that very moment, the ticking clock a reminder of what all they still had to do today, and Auguste didn’t hesitate to heft Laurent into his arms, didn’t hesitate to move them to the dresser against the wall the door was built within. Laurent settled on it easily, legs wide to accommodate for Auguste’s frame, the satin of the capelet flowing over the wood of the dresser in a river of fabric, gauzy and dreamlike.

“Watch us in the mirror,” Auguste said then, steadily pulling at the belt of his pants. “Watch us, Laurent. When you’re standing up there today, saying yes to that godforsaken Patran and his brainless smile, remember the way this felt.”

Auguste was aching against the zipper of his pants, hard and wanting and having so long ignored his own desire, and, like a fire reaching its hottest point, he couldn’t wait any longer to consume all that lay in front of him. Pushing his pants down just far enough to pull out his own cock, he moaned against Laurent’s mouth at the freed feeling before keeping himself there to absorb Laurent’s sounds as he pulled the plug out and placed it somewhere to his left upon the dresser.

“Auguste,” Laurent whined, moving forward to make himself more available, only to stutter in his movement as Auguste’s fingers immediately replaced the plug, thick and real inside of him.

“You’re wet,” he mumbled, mouth under Laurent’s jaw now. “Wet like a girl. Are you watching us?”

“Yes.” The word came out as an exhale, the sound soft as it always was.

“Keep your eyes open,” Auguste demanded. “Watch.”

And then he thrusted inside in a singular motion. Laurent took him beautifully, even as Auguste witnessed the physical catching of Laurent’s breath somewhere in his chest, and his cry was silent but written instead in the drop of his jaw, of the glass-like sheen to his eyes, and Auguste couldn’t not make a sound then, all of it so unbelievably overwhelming, even after all this time.

“Do you feel that?” Auguste asked as he began to move, Laurent’s walls clenching around him as if trying to lock him inside. Laurent could only nod, his legs tightening their hold around Auguste’s waist, opening himself more, and Auguste obliged instantly, pushing himself deeper, momentarily missing the days when Laurent was so tiny Auguste could feel himself in the bulge he made of Laurent’s stomach with his cock alone.

“You’re beautiful, Laurent,” Auguste said. “Make certain this capelet stays nice. I want you to wear it to our wedding night.”

“Auguste,” Laurent shuddered, eyes delirious as they tried to stay open. “Auguste, tell me what I am.”

“You know what you are.” Auguste ground in at the last three words, burying himself as he felt the beginnings of Laurent’s control slip into uninhibited pleasure.

“Tell me,” Laurent said, the words coming out like a sob.

“Will you come for me when I do, Laurent?”

Laurent could only nod again, his teeth biting down so hard on his cherry mouth that it’d be as swollen as it got when Laurent sucked Auguste’s cock in his perfectly trained throat.

Auguste pulled him forward by the hips, letting him hang precariously on the edge of the dresser, but the change in angle was exactly what they needed. Laurent let out a shout.

“You best hope no one was walking by,” Auguste said, picking up his pace, relishing in the drag of his cock against Laurent’s prostate, relishing in the ever-growing heat in his stomach.

“Auguste, tell me! I’m so close, so close.”

Auguste brought up his right hand, wrapping it once again around Laurent’s graceful neck, and pulled him into a kiss, the kind of kiss that betrayed the rough snapping of his hips, the kind of kiss that betrayed the desperation of Laurent’s fingernails in his arms. It was slow, deep, the kind of kiss that made one forget that they’re a human being, the kind of kiss that was an exploration of a person’s soul. It was wet and Auguste felt his gut clench as he pulled back and a string of saliva kept them connected yet.

And then he whispered, his forehead against Laurent’s, “You’re mine. You’re only mine,” and, like he said he would, Laurent cried out in release, the words toppling him over the precipice and nearly over the dresser. Auguste’s weight kept him steady, even as Laurent’s hole became vice-like in its grip, like it was his turn to consume Auguste.

With a gasping breath, Laurent shook with the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hole fluttering around Auguste’s length. Then he pulled at Auguste’s jacket, getting him close again. “Come inside me.”

Now it was Auguste’s turn to shudder, to groan, to chase what was his.

“Come inside me,” Laurent said again. “I want you to plug yourself inside me. I want to feel it as I stand up there today across from my husband. I want to be yours.”

“Laurent,” Auguste said, and his hips were stuttering in rhythm. “Laurent.”

“I’m yours, big brother.”

Those two words were the pulled trigger and Auguste muffled his own noises into Laurent’s shoulder. Laurent stayed wonderfully open for him, sighing as he felt the first pulse of Auguste’s release, and he petted through Auguste’s dark golden hair as Auguste tried to push himself even deeper. The buttons of Auguste’s dress shirt waved with the rhythmic quivers of his stomach, doing so until he had emptied himself entirely inside of Laurent.

They stayed like that for a moment, Auguste buried as far into Laurent’s body as he physically could, Laurent wrapped around Auguste limply, the energy to hold his legs up gone, replaced entirely by venery.

Slowly coming out of their haze, the first thing Auguste became aware of was the feeling of Laurent’s smile.

“How am I supposed to walk down the aisle when my legs won’t work?” Laurent asked, sounding drunk and satiated, and Auguste smiled too.

“I’ll hold you up. Like I always do,” Auguste said.

He stepped back just far enough to see the debauched picture Laurent made and the sight was enough to force out another audible groan. Still perched on the dresser with his capelet draped like the nearing end of a striptease, Laurent was flushed pink from his ears to his heaving chest. The barbells through his nipples only accentuated how swollen they were with arousal and the earlier workings of Auguste’s mouth, and they were the same blood-flushed color as the head of his leaky cock, the same color as his hole that was come-splattered and leaking even more than his cock.

With heavy-lashed eyes, he watched Auguste take him in.

“Will you help me get ready?” he asked, breaking the moment to look at the clock. Seven minutes.

Auguste nodded once, a stiff movement of his neck, and he reached first for the plug that was waiting to be put back inside of Laurent’s warmth and when Auguste went to do just that, he braced one hand on the flexing muscle of Laurent’s thigh and watched, enraptured as the plug was welcomed back, enraptured by the wet _schlick_ sound it made, enraptured by the flutter of Laurent’s gaze.

After that, they hurried to get Laurent ready in silence. Auguste tucked himself back into his pants, redid his belt, and smoothed out the front of his shirt while Laurent tugged on his jumpsuit. Wordlessly, Laurent lifted his hair, giving Auguste space to pull up the zipper before finding the belt and lacing it up, the weaving of the strings a hypnotic focus as they both found their grounding again.

“Everything ready for tonight?” Laurent asked after a moment, after the laces were secured and tight once more.

“I’ve got a bottle of estazolam for you to put in your husband’s drink about halfway through the reception. Remember to triple the dosage from what we did last time as our Patran friend is much larger than your Kemptian husband,” Auguste said.

“May he rest in peace,” Laurent said solemnly, the words almost sincere if not for the quirk of his lips.

Auguste hummed, an amused sound. “It’ll ensure he has no chance to get his hands on you for a disappointment of a wedding night.”

“And the first dosage of Vaskian strychnine? Do you want me to give that to him tonight as well?”

“No. We’ll put it in his hangover remedy for tomorrow,” Auguste said. “Don’t want to start too early like we did with your first husband.”

“Oh, give us some grace,” Laurent said, wrapping his arms around Auguste’s neck then, standing high on his tiptoes and all. “We were young.”

Auguste kissed him fiercely. “And we get better and better because of you.”

A knock on the door made them separate quickly, but reluctantly, and they did so just in time for Myrial popped her wild-haired head in. “Laurent, we’re ready for you,” she said, then, like earlier, she gasped before saying, “I know I just saw you, but you are the most stunning thing I’ve ever seen.”

Auguste beamed at her, hands in his front pockets and rocking on the heels of his shined shoes, and said, “You’re right, Myrial. It’s going to be real hard to let this one go.”

Myrial’s bottom lip fattened in an affectionate pout. “You two!” she cried. “You’re the best brothers I’ve ever been lucky enough to know.”

“We’re all we have,” Laurent said and he looked at Auguste’s handsome profile fondly as Auguste gave him his elbow.

“And now you’ll have the Myron family too.”

Auguste and Laurent shared a look.

Myrial couldn’t help but comment, as she escorted them out, “You’re red a berry. There’s no need to be nervous! Everything will work out perfectly,” and Auguste and Laurent couldn’t not share one more look before the music began to play.

Within the next hour, Laurent was no longer Veretian in name, but Patran. He wasn’t personally fond of the way Laurent Myron felt on his tongue, though he would argue it was better than Laurent Lamont or Laurent Savas or Laurent Tripi, but it wasn’t his name.

Within the following hour, the reception was in full swing and Laurent had danced one stiff-shouldered dance with his Patran husband before feigning emotional exhaustion and letting the man tire himself out amongst his wild family while Laurent and Auguste lounged in the corner, Laurent’s ring long tucked into the pocket of his outfit so Auguste’s fingers could rub absentmindedly at the spot instead.

“I hated that,” Auguste confessed quietly as another fast-beat song began and the crowd on the dancefloor gave out a cheer. “I hate giving you away, even if it’s only for a while.”

“But just think,” Laurent started, shifting in the chair to look at Auguste fully, “in a few months my dear Patran husband will be six feet under and you and I will be millions richer. We’ll finally have enough to buy that godsforsaken Veretian house you’ve had your heart set on.”

Auguste grinned. “You mean the one you’ve had your heart set on.”

“Perhaps that’s it,” Laurent mused, leaning in just close enough to be considered inappropriate.

“But most importantly,” Auguste said, leaning in as well, “is that we’ll be set for life. It’ll be me and you, you and me. Forever.”

The expression that crossed Laurent’s face rivaled that of when Auguste had first slid inside of him in that one perfect thrust.

“And I’ll only have to ever be yours again?”

“Only mine.”

The music turned slow after a few minutes, the lights dimming fittingly, and Auguste’s fingers never stopped their slow drawn circles on Laurent’s ring finger.

“Hey, Auguste?” Laurent whispered.

“Yeah?”

“We’ll finally have enough to begin planning our uncle’s funeral too.”

Auguste turned to him, then flicked a cautious eye to the busy dancefloor, before closing what little space was left between them, a wedding day kiss to cement such vows.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This isn't great; or, I suppose it didn't end up the way I intended. Trying not to hate it as it's my first time writing anything quite like this. 
> 
> Here is a link to Laurent's wedding jumpsuit. Imagine the belt as a corset belt instead though:
> 
> https://www.etsy.com/listing/643271126/bridal-suit-bridal-outfit-bridal-cape?source=aw&utm_source=affiliate_window&utm_medium=affiliate&utm_campaign=us_location_buyer&utm_term=3657&awc=6220_1580940979_48ca41033da82390746d263acfc545b5&utm_content=136348&awc=6220_1610664496_b87fb6859a822225305fa0fce8781db9


End file.
